I typically throw on a pair of sweat pants and my glasses, before taking my daughter to school every morning. As much as I love clothes, I would never win any fashion awards for my morning attire. (my morning coif leaves something to be desired, as well) When I got home the other day, I dropped trou, to get into the shower. When I came out of the shower, I noticed that my sweat pants were in a perfect pile on top of my shoes, as if the person wearing them had instantly disintegrated, right where she was standing. I giggled to myself because lately, how my pants looked, is how I feel about my aging skin. It’s like every morning, I have to start at my ankles and pull up my skin, like a pantsuit or a wet suit. Pretty soon, I’ll need to hold things up with a set of bungee cords or extra strong velcro. (could be an interesting fashion statement)
An alternate thought that I had, when I stared at the funny little sweat pant pile (this just gives you a bird’s eye view into where my weird mind goes to . . . and tends to stay, far too long), is that it was like I had melted, like the Wicked Witch of the West. (right now, my family is all saying to themselves, “You said it . . . not us.”)
